I've been wearing my father's coat these past few days, breathing in at the elbow its wheat-like aroma every now and then. It could use a good cleaning, but that's not going to happen, not until that sweetness fades. Wearing his coat reminds me of one of my favorite poems by my pal and creator of poetry slam, Marc Smith. The poem reflects a troubled relationship between father and son, quite different than anything I would write, but there's a haunting intimacy that gets me every time. Check it out:

Today I also carried my father's wallet in my back pocket, needing to copy a few items. This reminded me of poem by Raymond Carver that I also love. I walk around thinking I'm fine, and then some tiny pocket of grief rises up unexpectedly and slams me.